


Push, Pull

by underscoredom



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Drug Use, M/M, Mild drug addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-01 14:45:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underscoredom/pseuds/underscoredom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce and Clint want different things for the other although the one thing they agree on is how they want each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bruce

**I.**

 

The first time, he’s seventeen or nineteen- but fuck if it matters. He’s a genius and he’s on top of the fucking world.  
  
He talks about why Jesus would want to live on the moon, punches anyone who questions his genius and, if the particularly large hickey on his hip is any indication, definitely gets some.

  
The night is a blur, composed of the smell of grass, a verbal jumble and a flash of blonde hair.  
  
*  
  
His patience is long, but once his fuse is blown, back out. Abort! Hurry to the escape pod! He’s heard all kinds of jokes about his temper. Most days he nods. He bobs his head in agreement, because it’s true, isn’t it? Even he doesn’t like it when he’s mad, wondering where this whole new person comes from.  
  
But god, does he hate the reputation.  
  
It’s late and there is a party- dark and stuffed with people, dancing and vices.

 

His hair is wild, flying all over the place, his eyes wide and his clothes sagging from being used for three days in a row. He hates it, hates the noise, hates the smell.

 

He’s only here because he was promised a share of a friend’s latest batch.  
  
This is how Clint Barton meets him- wild and unstable from the lack of sleep. They bump into each other, their drinks slosh droplets on the ground and along his cheeks. He is asked if he’s alright.  
  
“Fuck you,” he says in his state of half-delirium. People back off, hands held up and their eyes either wide with surprised fear or narrowed at the sight of such a dick. Barton bares his teeth, looking wild in his own way, under the lights, the atmosphere, with his messed up hair and the tight grip on his drink.

  
“Gladly,” the reply is purred. A quick wink and he dissolves in the crowd.  
  
*  
  
It’s not... it’s not something he’s proud of.

 

Knowing this doesn’t stop him though because each drag is better than each minute when he’s angry and confused and wants to smash someone’s head against the wall. Each drag, a minute turns into thirty and his thoughts slip out of the pockets of his mind, until he imagines he is a cat, curled up and content and warm, leaning against—  
  
against what?  
  
It’s a thought that baffles him as well.  
  
*  
  
“Are you fucking high?” It’s thrown at him but it doesn’t hit him like a punch to the gut. It comes like a tap against his shoulder; he takes the time to look up and blink, not acknowledging the person, but rather, the voice.  
  
“Hello,” he replies, measured and careful. He pushes his goggles up, rests them on the mop of hair that had fallen on his forehead. He turns off the Bunsen burner and rests the heated test tube on the rack, making sure to note in his pad that the liquid is cyan, not maroon.  
  
He doesn’t know this person, he thinks, frowning slightly. No, he doesn’t recognize him but his new found company seems to recognize him.  
  
“Do I know you?”  
  
The other man laughs, then coughs, covering his mouth with a curled fist. The other hand is making sure the box he has resting against his hip isn’t falling. His grin stays, lines crinkling slightly at the corner of his eyes. He has an urge to get a marker and draw over the lines, so that they’ll still be there even when he’s not smiling anymore.  
  
“Nope. We’ve met though. I do believe you owe me a fuck,” his mystery man says, waggling his eyebrows. This catches his attention.  
  
He looks, makes sure to take a good long look. He notes the short, cropped hair, a wash of blonde; the curve of his lips and the smell of cigarette that came in with him.  
  
“I do not,” he says because it’s true, unless he’s gone too far and he just doesn’t recall.  
  
“You don’t deny being high?”  
  
“Why deny the truth?”  
  
The other man stares at him, incredulous.  
  
“Couldn’t you get, I don’t know, carried away? Burn down the building?”  
  
“I’m high, not incapable of thought,” he snaps. Dangerous. Maybe.  
  
“I noticed. You keep mumbling ‘who’s mystery man?’ whenever you open your mouth— hey, am I mystery man?”  
  
“You could go away.”  
  
“You gotta receive this first. Gotta complete my service hours or else I’ll get my ass scorched. Chem Dept says you can receive the lab’s new equipment.” A sheet and pen wave in front of him and it lures him straight to mystery man, as if he caught a new scent. Technically, the equipment is owned by the school, but they let him his occasional experiments, he might as well be staff.  
  
“You should stop smoking cigarettes,” he blurts out once he’s close enough and can see the yellow of mystery man’s teeth.  
  
“You should stop smoking weed,” he retorts.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Well then.”  
  
“I’m Bruce,” he adds as an afterthought because he doesn’t know this guy but this guy recognizes him enough to know his not-so-secret.  
  
“Clint,” Clint returns. “Now can you please sign the fucking form?”  
  
*  
  
He’s hooked, doesn’t know how long he’s been hooked. He’s gone from being on top of the world to feeling so low, he can’t get up. He feels heavy, it’s so new. Sometimes, he holds up his hands in front of his face, just because he wants to test if he can still carry the weight of his fingers.  
  
Sometimes, he’ll lock himself in his room because he’s had too much of conversation. Sometimes, he’ll be reading his notes and he’ll laugh because his notes sound ridiculous.  
  
And sometimes, he’ll let himself imagine Clint shaking him, telling him to stop it. He imagines him snatching the joint and stomping on it while he watches. Sometimes he’ll tackle Clint to the ground, punches the fuck out of him because how dare he? Other times he’ll tackle Clint to the ground and push his tongue in his mouth, the taste of weed and cigarettes mingling.  
  
*  
  
They don’t see each other, not for weeks.  
  
The next time they do, it’s him who finds Clint.  
  
He takes a deep breath and doesn’t lose sight of him.  
  
*  
  
Dangerous. Maybe. It’s a chant thrumming through his veins, gives him a headache but it doesn’t matter. Half the time, he doesn’t feel it over the roar of the motorcycle, helmet unclasped on his head, arms holding onto the seat.  
  
(Once, Clint insists they switch position. Let’s him ride in front of him. He wraps his hand on the bar handles, Clint’s right on top of his. He doesn’t remember anything except for the rush of air, the feel of equally cold hands and Clint’s laughter beside his ear.)  
  
*  
  
They go out. Sometimes it’s at the school canteen, sharing a meal between them. Other times, they head on over to the 7/11 and argue over which microwavable dinner they should get. They’ll argue over who should pay and try to settle their arguments by naming who’s the hotter politician.  
  
They go out. Clint takes him to this small restaurant, tucked in between a bar and a convenience store. They eat kebab and smell like cooked beef when they leave.

 

There’s sauce on the corner of Clint’s mouth so he leans forward and he hears Clint’s breath hitch when he wipes it clean and sucks it right off the finger he had used.  
  
Clint retaliates by making sure he gets to his room. By making sure he gets to sleep. By being pressed against him, snoring, when he wakes up.  
  
*  
  
He can’t remember the last time he’s flicked open a lighter.  
  
*  
  
They fight, it’s normal. But how many fights have to involve rough shoves and rougher words? How many fights have to involve one or the other walking out and ignoring their cell phone for days?  
  
Once, he almost goes too far. He traps Clint between him and the wall, his fist curled and raised and aiming for his face.  
  
Clint doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t say a word. He does, however, gnaw on his bottom lip and he knows what that means, knows he’s restraining himself.  
  
He forces himself to stop and turn away. Runs and runs and he would have kept running if Clint didn’t catch up.  
  
*  
  
He remembers one time, Clint caught him smoking- freshly lit and no sign of ashes on the floor just yet.  
  
He expected a disapproving lecture. It was there, the disappointment. He read it clear on Clint’s face before it had the chance to be masked.  
  
He opened his mouth, prepared to drown it out with his own explanation, justification and maybe Clint’s cock, if neither of those worked.  
  
Instead, Clint tugged him out of the room and took him to the rooftop, telling him, not to smoke in a closed room, at least.  
  
For the first ten minutes (or ten hours, he lost count as the minutes tick on), he was alone, left in the dark, left in the open, left in the silence the trace of smoke, crawling up to the sky the only sign that he was there. He sat himself against the rusting water tank and cursed and thanked Clint as he took drag after drag.  
  
He heard the quiet creak of the door being opened, then closed. The shuffle of footsteps and suddenly Clint was there, sliding down next to him. He let himself rest his head against Clint’s shoulder, finishing the joint with one last drag before crushing it and stuffing it in his pocket to properly dispose of it later.  
  
Clint had laughed at that. He remembered his shoulder shaking. He opened his mouth, ready to kiss him quiet but he recalled the image of a cat and how warm Clint was—  
  
“I’m a cat,” he said instead.  
  
“Me-ow,” Clint growled and shifted, about to kiss him—  
  
“I’m afraid,” he said, stopping Clint with a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Of what?” Clint whispered. He considered telling Clint.

Dangerous.

He kept quiet.

Maybe.  
  
*  
  
One month and ten days later, he runs and doesn’t look back. He can pick one or the other but in the end, he’ll be miserable because he can’t have both.  
  
He’ll just have to do that from far away.  
  
When he says good-bye, Clint doesn’t know that it’s good-bye. He takes it to mean as good night and he kisses him back, planting one on each eyelid, just before sleep overtakes him.  
  
*  
  
It feels like hell but he pushes himself forward.


	2. Clint

**II.**

This is how they start:  
  
A conversation, simple and easy to sail through. A stack of books rests in between them; he tilts his head to read the titles on the spines facing him. Quarks, Leptons and Gauge Fields says one. A Biology of Science Fiction says another. The Tao of Pooh declares the thin book at the top of the pile.  
  
They talk about Flubber and then its remake. They talk about who’s sleeping with whom and why that would be impossible. They talk about windmills, the durability of video game controllers, how to get fireworks to screech and why the NBA season will suck next year. They talk about the possibility of having aliens in jumpsuits made literally from humans. They swap drunk stories and thesis nightmares. They talk about other things amongst other things.  
  
He’s leaning back on his hands, legs pressed firmly on the ground, bag resting firmly against it. Bruce, on the other hand, has his legs crossed on the bench, a hand resting on each knee. He takes deep breathes in between pauses. He rubs his thumb against his finger when he talks about certain subjects. His eye brows are burrowed, bunching in the middle, as though deep in concentration.  
  
(His pupils are blown, sclera a slight tinge of red. He tends to cover his mouth with his fist when he talks. When it’s his turn to speak, Bruce places a hand over his mouth, fingers poised as though holding a cigarette in between. He’s not an idiot; he knows it’s not cigarettes he craves for.)  
  
Before he knows it, he has to leave, the bell reminding him that his class has started exactly ten minutes ago and that, if he is ten minutes later, he will be marked absent.  
  
“You know, I didn’t think I’d enjoy talking to you,” he confesses, ducking to grab his bag by the strap, slinging it on one shoulder. Bruce raises an eyebrow.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yeah. I mean, you do have a reputation, man—”  
  
“What? Of being a stoner?” And the words are sharp, knives carved with restrained malice. Bruce immediately grimaces, regretting his words. He holds his hands up.  
  
“No. Well, maybe that too. But I was going to say it was about you being a goddamn hot head. And I’m— I just didn’t expect us to get along, is all.” He stretches out his hand; a peace offering. Bruce stares at it, beyond it, before he snaps back and grins.

 

Takes his hand and pulls himself off the bench. When he grabs for Bruce’s books with one hand, slings the other around his shoulders and steers them away from the classrooms, he is thrown a look of confusion.  
  
“Don’t you have class?”  
  
“Yeah, think I’ll cut it today. C’mon, let’s get dinner.”  
  
*  
  
Yes, it is exciting.  
  
But what is he doing, playing around with Bruce Banner? He puffs on his cigarette, later that night, when he is alone. He watches the smoke curl, wondering.  
  
Dangerous, half of him thinks. Maybe.  
  
He takes a long drag, as though he is taking a deep breath.  
  
*  
  
When they next see each other, there is a crowd parting them. First bell is the equivalent of a student body rush hour. Amidst the rush of footsteps, soft murmurs and loud conversations, they pass by each other, heading towards opposite directions.  
  
Bruce’s eyes narrow, a playful smirk surfacing on his face. He winks. They are left unnoticed.  
  
*  
  
Dark corners are made for dark conferences and dark deeds. In their case, he brings them there because he wants a smoke and Bruce wants a smoke but he doesn’t exactly want to see what Bruce smokes.  
  
It’s a different kind of aroma, he reflects, as they take turns blowing smoke to the air. He teaches Bruce how to puff out circles, demonstrating once, twice, until he notices Bruce staring at his open lips and not anymore the smoke. He nearly chokes; Bruce laughs.  
  
As they finish, Bruce talks about religion and takes a shift as he mentions the improbability of certain things. He gestures his hands between them frantically.  
  
“Like us. I mean, jesus, look at us,” he says. “We weren’t designed for this and yet, here I am, sharing my time and my now with you. And, god, who would have thought— this isn’t meant to happen except you told me I owe you a fuck. But why? Why should I give a fuck?” He keeps talking, words tumbling out of his mouth, hands flying in the air. There’s a sort of pleading in his voice and in his eyes and he realizes that Bruce is looking for some sort of sign or affirmation, maybe even a rejection.  
  
He makes a grab for his wrists, shocking Bruce into silence, stilling his hands. He cradles a hand with one of his own and uses his other to trace over the outline of his hand, dipping into the spaces between fingers, running over the jutting bones and rough lines of his palm. They maintain eye contact.  
  
“The Beatles once said: I wanna hold your hand,” he says. “Bam, ultimate message, it helped get a point across.” He curls his fingers over Bruce’s.  
  
“Between the two of us, I think you’re the one who’s high,” Bruce kids, but laces their fingers anyway.  
  
*  
  
Later, he holds his hand close to his nose and takes a sniff. It still smells of something organic, something charred. He wants to pull away in disgust but it reminds him of Bruce. Bruce’s words echo; there might actually be some truth in them.  
  
*  
  
309, Bruce’s scratchy penmanship says. He had written it on the back of one of his test papers and he’d tucked it in one of his notebooks. He’s not sure which one, but he’s memorized it anyway.  
  
The hallway is empty. He knocks on the door to a mash up of the theme songs of Indiana Jones and Star Wars.  
  
From inside, Bruce yells, “Go the hell away!”  
  
The same night, he gets a text, an apology. He forces himself not to reply.  
  
The day after, Bruce creeps up on him, runs nimble fingers across his shoulder blades before taking the seat across him, grabbing the chips on his plate, licking the cheese off his fingers while avoiding his eyes.  
  
*  
  
They don’t talk about it, if they can avoid it; jokes are fine, but they tend not to talk about it.  
  
Dangerous, his mind supplies. Maybe.  
  
*  
  
It was weeks and then nearly three months. Now, he lies still with one arm wrapped around Bruce, who is on his side, facing him. His mouth is slightly open, the smell of alcohol reeking from his breath. He snores and keeps his hands tucked under his head, oblivious to his attempt to wrap a blanket around him.  
  
Having given up, he tries to get a good look at Bruce’s room. Books are piled in tall, uneven totems all over the floor. There’s probably a code to this mess, he muses, when he thinks he sees a hardbound copy of Narnia under a book on philosophy.  
  
Clothes are all over the place. The used, unwashed clothes are hanging from the back of the chair and the closet door, which has been left slightly open for that purpose. Freshly laundered clothes are seated at the foot of the bed, some inches away from his foot.  
  
The only neat place in the room is a small study table, which had a table lamp and a laptop. It has three levels of drawers.  
  
He falls asleep, wondering which one is locked.  
  
*  
  
The second time he sees Bruce’s room, Bruce is in class.  
  
He pretends to knock on the door, all the while lock-picking it with an expired credit card. He counts to fifteen before the lock slides and he congratulates himself for still having skill.  
  
This is an intervention, he decides, eying the deceitful study table with the locked drawer.  Will it help? He doesn’t know.  
  
Dangerous, his mind reminds him. Yeah, maybe.  
  
*  
  
For days, Bruce keeps chewing his lower lip. He is moody so he keeps quiet, only coming alive in the evening when he coaxes him with kisses to the corners of his mouth.  
  
When Bruce does speak, they fight and they yell. He’s been shoved and he has shoved back but tries to keep his hands behind his back, knowing who of the two of them happens to be stronger.  
  
“Fuck you,” Bruce hisses once.  
  
“Yeah, you do a good job of that,” he spits out and runs. He runs and runs and Bruce doesn’t come after him but he is there when he returns.  
  
*  
  
He caves. Sneaks into Bruce’s room and unlocks the drawer. Something heavy sinks in his stomach as he unfurls the small zip bag from his pocket.  
  
*  
  
This is how they end:  
  
They alternate. He sucks and Bruce blows. Bruce sucks and he blows. The smoke in the air nearly chokes him. One more puff.  
  
“Quit,” he says.  
  
“You quit,” Bruce challenges. He shrugs then smirks. Flicks his cigarette to the ground and brings his heel down on it. Bruce’s eyes widen, surprise scrawled all over.  
  
“Okay,” he agrees. He heads to the nearest trash can and brings out his pack, which serves as a home for half a pack of cigarettes, his lighter lovingly tucked inside. All this he throws inside.  
  
“Your turn,” he says when he returns. He gets the joint and flicks it on the ground, right next to his stub. Bruce blinks, once, twice then allows a sly smile, before stomping on it hard.  
  
*  
  
One night he kisses Bruce all over. He crawls on top of him, legs straddling him, hands gripping his shoulders, thumb stroking the jutting bones. He kisses and goes lower; Bruce smiles and smiles and then sobs when he finally comes.  
  
He kisses him goodnight, on his lips and on each fluttering eye lid.  
  
The next morning, Bruce is gone. He waits and waits, the way Bruce had waited for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, I got this edited and compiled! I had a hard time, at first, deciding if I wanted to publish this here. Some of the experiences here are actually inspired by personal events. Writing this was my way of going through a mood and, geez Louis, looks like the therapy helped tons. Thank you Alek for beta-ing this fic (through quite appropriate means, gotta add). And thank you to everyone on tumblr who commented on this when it was still a silly mess.


End file.
